The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 50

TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN

REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR,

I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school, in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane.

I am yours, Reverend Sir, to command, PAT. REYLY.

Scribimus indocti doctique poemata pa.s.sim.

HOR., _Epist_. II, i, 117

AD AMIc.u.m ERUDITUM THOMAM SHERIDAN

Deliciae, Sheridan, Musarum, dulcis amice, Sic tibi propitius Permessi ad flumen Apollo Occurrat, seu te mimum convivia rident, Aequivocosque sales spargis, seu ludere versu Malles; dic, Sheridan, quisnam fuit ille deorum, Quae melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri Scrutandi? Tibi nascenti ad cunabula Pallas Ast.i.tit; et dixit, mentis praesaga futurae, Heu, puer infelix! nostro sub sidere natus; Nam tu pectus eris sine corpore, corporis umbra; Sed levitate umbram superabis, voce cicadam: Musca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura.

Corpore sed tenui tibi quod natura negavit, Hoc animi dotes supplebunt; teque docente, Nec longum tempus, surget tibi docta juventus, Artibus egregiis animas instructa novellas.

Grex hinc Paeonius venit, ecce, salutifer orbi; Ast, illi causas orant: his insula visa est Divinam capiti nodo constringere mitram.

Natalis te horae non fallunt signa, sed usque Conscius, expedias puero seu laetus Apollo Nascenti arrisit; sive ilium frigidus horror Saturni premit, aut septem inflavere triones.

Quin tu alte penitusque latentia semina cernis Quaeque diu obtundendo olim sub luminis auras Erumpent, promis; quo ritu saepe puella Sub cinere hesterno sopitos suscitat ignes.

Te dominum agnoscit quocunque sub aere natus: Quos indulgentis nimium custodia matris Pessundat: nam saepe vides in stipite matrem.

Aureus at ramus, venerandae dona Sibyllae, Aeneae sedes tantum patefecit Avernas; Saepe puer, tua quem tetigit semel aurea virga, Et coelum, terrasque videt, noctemque profundam.

Ad te, doctissime Delany, Pulsus a foribus Decani, Confugiens edo querelam, Pauper petens clientelam.

Petebam Swift doctum patronum, Sed ille dedit nullum donum, Neque cib.u.m neque bonum.

Quaeris quam male sit stomacho num?

Iratus valde valde latrat, Crumenicidam ferme patrat: Quin ergo releves aegrotum, Dato cib.u.m, dato potum.

Ita in utrumvis oculum, Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum.

Quaeso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam c.u.m versiculis perlegere, quam c.u.m fastidio abjecit et respuebat Deca.n.u.s ille (inquam) lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes.

Reverende Vir,

De vestra benignitate et clementia in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi persuasum esset n.o.bis, hanc epistolam reverentiae vestrae non scripsissem; quam profect, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere partem nullus dubito. Saevit Boreas, mugiunt procellae, dentibus invitis maxillae bellum gerunt. Nec minus, intestino depraeliantibus tumultu visceribus, cla.s.sic.u.m sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, haec nostra querela. Proh Deum atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule, nostro ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio, qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi, ad te, quasi ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene nossem succurrere potuisse, mehercule, neque fores vestras pultussem, neque limina tetigissem. Quam longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens, despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In via nullum fuit solatium praeterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne t.u.r.dos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Maecenatis convivium, ita me pictura pascens inani, saepius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum sacra fames? Haec omnia, quae nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires; nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.

Vivitur parvo male, sed canebat Flaccus ut parvo bene: quod negamus: Pinguis et laute saturatus ille Ridet inanes.

Pace sic dicam liceat poetae n.o.bilis laeti salibus faceti Usque jocundi, lepide jocantis Non sine cura.

Quis potest versus (meditans merendam, Prandium, coenam) numerare? quis non Quot panes pistor locat in fenestra Dicere mallet?

Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus; Latrat ingenti stomachus furore; Quaeso digneris renovare fauces, Docte Patrone.

Vestiant lanae tenues libellos, Vestiant panni dominum trementem, Aedibus vestris trepidante penna Musa propinquat.

Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam Esse promitt.i.t, nisi sit coacta Frigore iniquo.

Si modo possem! Vetat heu pudor me Plura, sed praestat rogitare plura, An dabis binos digitos crumenae im- ponere vestrae?

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise Have made a recantation, From your low bended knees arise; I hate such poor prostration.

'Tis bravery that moves the brave, As one nail drives another; If you from me would mercy have, Pray, Sir, be such another.

You that so long maintain'd the field With true poetic vigour; Now you lay down your pen and yield, You make a wretched figure.

Submit, but do't with sword in hand, And write a panegyric Upon the man you cannot stand; I'll have it done in lyric:

That all the boys I teach may sing The achievements of their Chiron; What conquests my stern looks can bring Without the help of iron.

A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen, From magazine of standish Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean, Than any sword we brandish.

My ink's my flash, my pen's my bolt; Whene'er I please to thunder, I'll make you tremble like a colt, And thus I'll keep you under.

THOMAS SHERIDAN.

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

Dear Dean, I'm in a sad condition, I cannot see to read or write; Pity the darkness of thy Priscian, Whose days are all transform'd to night.

My head, though light, 's a dungeon grown, The windows of my soul are closed; Therefore to sleep I lay me down, My verse and I are both composed.

Sleep, did I say? that cannot be; For who can sleep, that wants his eyes?

My bed is useless then to me, Therefore I lay me down to rise.

Unnumber'd thoughts pa.s.s to and fro Upon the surface of my brain; In various maze they come and go, And come and go again.

So have you seen in sheet burnt black, The fiery sparks at random run; Now here, now there, some turning back Some ending where they just begun.

THOMAS SHERIDAN.

AN ANSWER, BY DELANY, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded sore eye, And the more I consider your case, still the more I Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye.

Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye, In pity cry out, "He's a poor blinded Tory."

But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye A sovereign cure well attested in Gory.